When I sent an e-mail off to two sailors I know from way back, the one who still lives in N'wawlins (read it just the way it sounds and you've got it right) ask, "why do you guys give your boat's such New Orleans names?".
I didn't' have a ready answer, but as a native son of the Crescent City who now lives in Fargo, N.D., I have to try to stay in touch with my Acadian and Creole roots.
Tchoupitoulas was an Indian tribe, and the name was reputed to mean "People Who Live In the Mud Down by the River", but the only formal, ethnographic references to it refer to "Pine(y) Rest", i.e., a nice place under the trees.
Either meaning is good for a boat drawing less than two feet on a lake in northwest Minnesota. At least, it's OK by me.
If you don't like the name, don't think people without African heritage should be allowed to call themselves Creole, go to the Cemetery on Memorial Day and not All Saints Day, or otherwise live in a culturally impoverished way, you don't have to sail on her. Or, better yet, come sailing and have a beer and I'll convert you.
When I scrape the last bit of decal of the old name off of her, I will not only pour red wine and ask for the blessing of Poseidon and Aeolus, but I will invoke the name of Big Chief Jolly of the Wild Tchoupitoulas and pour a big tot of rum on the bow, and sprinkle it in the four corners {well, ok, a boat only has three corners, but its voodoo and, like yoga, you can make some of it up as you go along and nobody complains}.
At least I didn't name it "Margaritaville" (although "Biloxi" was on my mind as a close contender. It's a favorite Jimmy Buffet slow number that get me all choked up thinking about home).